Gabriel Petrelli?
by Dragonbot v.2.0.1
Summary: Oh come on, fanfiction world. You can't say this thought never occurred to you when that twist came about.


**Gabriel Petrelli?**

It's twisted. It's wrong. It's oh-so _right_.

* * *

There is something to be said about a person's mental state of health when he is capable of lounging about a plush sofa while completely drenched in blood. Especially when said person went by the name of 'Sylar', and was presently sporting a look that was mildly bemused as opposed to guilty in any way. The killer had established a very comfortable – suitably villainous – lair amidst the mass of encompassing softness, and was presently fiddling with the corner of a lace cushion, smudging crimson fingerprints all over spotless white in the process.

Peter was not entertained. Went so far as to _glare_ at him in a manner that specifically said: '_Am Not Happy_'_,_ before shoving those grimy shoes off their perch about the lacquered rosewood coffee table (and the pool of unidentifiable Ick that was coagulating around them).

"Don't _do_ that. I told you, this is Nathan's place. He's gonna make me clean all this up if he finds out I let a murderer mess up his furniture."

Upon which Sylar merely smirked and nestled deeper into the sofa, tucking the pillow underneath his chin and smearing on an expression that was (presumably) meant to be irresistibly adorable.

"Now is that any way to treat your long lost brother?"

Stony look. Stride forward. Snatch the pillow away.

"Don't make me go back in time just to stop you from sitting down."

Sylar ignored the obviously deadly threat, squirming about such that his feet were now propped up on the sofa itself (at which point Peter looked like he was on the verge of a second nuclear meltdown) arching his head back so that the younger man was well within the scope of his impeccable observational capacities. If completely upside down.

"You know, I really don't see the resemblance. One would think you'd share _some_ of my more desirable characteristics…but nope. Nothing."

And there was that twist of the lips again. That trademarked Peter-expression that was either cuttingly sarcastic or charmingly amused – it was rather difficult to tell sometimes.

"Would you be talking about the killing streak or the psychopathy? Because – no offense – but I'd really prefer not get into the business of trying to hurt everyone I met."

At which point Sylar just looked all the more amused, wriggling about and cocking one brow as he continued staring at his alleged sibling.

"So noble. So selfless. And you think I'm the crazy one." Slight knit of features then, with the serial killer looking almost wistful as he started fiddling with a little ball of fluff that had taken to detaching itself from the hem of his shirt. "You know, Gabriel Petrelli doesn't have the same ring to it as Gabriel Gray. That's not very fair. Why can't you be the one who's related to me? You could be Peter Gray. Kinda fits the angsty self-righteous image you have going for you. It's perfect."

"Move over." Apparently trying to rearrange a lazy serial killer such that you had enough space to stretch out on the same couch was a bit like trying to move a snoozy puppy: you just needed to shove him over a bit and he'd growl and complain before grudgingly settling down beside you. "That's not how it works. Besides, what makes you think you even share our last name?"

"Intuitive aptitude."

"Oh, haha. _Funny_."

Feeding that sardonic ego probably wasn't a good thing. Peter somehow had the feeling that Sylar's perception of amusement wasn't nearly as tame as about ninety-nine percent of the global population. Which wasn't all that safe when you were that close to him and indestructible to boot. _"Sylar, why are you cutting open my skull?" "Oh, I thought it would be fun to show you how your brain works! Lookie! The frontal lobe!"_

Very, very reassuring. Mental note to start sleeping with a taser and (or) pepper spray.

Silence was allowed to linger, working in conjunction with the afternoon heat to marinate two sets of superpowered brains under a haze of simmering vegetation. The next time Sylar spoke, he sounded suitably drowsy; and Peter wasn't so much concerned with trying to preserve the sanctity of Nathan's abode as he was with slouching about a position designed in ancient times, targeted at achieving maximum comfort while just _barely_ reaffirming your stance as an evolved primate.

The topic of conversation was, if idle tones and lax postures were any indication, one that was completely conventional by their standards.

"So…that time I fucked you in the kitchen?"

"Incest."

"Hot."

"I'd better tell Nathan."

"Why?"

"Two words. Petrelli orgy."

"Can I call Mohinder?"

"No. I don't want to catch his Oozing Insect Scales. Besides, he's not even related to us."

"With the next plot twist, he could be."


End file.
